


Dave Strider: Master Wordsmith

by wendybirb



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, butthole teachers, cliche note passing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendybirb/pseuds/wendybirb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You shove the note in his hand, all neatly-folded with his name written in big red lettering, and he gives you a confused smile before turning back, his fingers already working at the corners."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dave Strider: Master Wordsmith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themagestrikesback](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=themagestrikesback).



Your hands shake as you scribble out the note in your bright red scrawl. You don’t think you’ve ever been this nervous in your life, and for what? The nerd sitting directly in front of you? The nerd with the goofy hair and goofier teeth who’s sat in front of you the past five months of scholastic torture, only occasionally gracing you with his visage in order to borrow a writing utensil? You think you’ve lost about ten pencils to him, but you don’t even give a shit. You secretly hope he still has them and that he cherishes them as much as you cherish the far too few conversations you both have shared.  
  
You read over your note a few dozen times, your eyes taking in every rambling word. The compliments thinly veiled by your own poetic genius. You like to think your lines about his sparkling blue eyes and soft black hair will sweep him off his feet. You are the master wordsmith, it is you.  
  
You steel your nerves before tapping his shoulder, his blue clad shoulder, the same blue as his eyes, only not even because no man-made color could ever compare. His eyes must have been colored in by an angel because you’ve never seen anything bluer. But oops now he’s facing you, and you’re gawking like an idiot instead of going through with your mission. Earth to Strider, you’re blowing it Strider. Houston we have a major problem.  
  
 _“Did you need something?”_ he whispers, his hand cupped around his mouth like a fucking elementary school girl telling a secret, and you think it’s the cutest thing ever. Everything about this kid is cute, from his perma-bedhead down to his mismatched socks. And that’s exactly what got you in this predicament in the first place, isn’t it?  
  
You shove the note in his hand, all neatly-folded with his name written in big red lettering, and he gives you a confused smile before turning back, his fingers already working at the corners.  
  
He has it nearly opened when your worst nightmare comes to fruition. The croaking voice of Ms. Anderson, algebra bitch extraordinaire, calls over all your heads. “Mr. Egbert, are you passing notes in my classroom?”  
  
His cute little head darts up, and you can just imagine his expression, all open mouth and wide eyes, the pop of blue taking over his entire face.  
  
“Why don’t you come up here and share with the whole class if it’s so important?” Her tone tells everyone that it’s not an invitation, but a command, and you feel your heart stop as John’s chair screeches out. You feel the vibrations up through the soles of your shoes, and oh god you’re gonna die, you just know it.  
  
He reaches the front of the room, silently pleading with the teacher, but she won’t budge. He seems to understand this and clears his throat, holding the paper in front of his face.  
  
“’ dear john,’” he begins, his voice ringing out through the room and you’re definitely gonna die. RIP Strider, might as well dig your grave now.  
  
“'so youve been sitting in front of me a while now like long enough for me to know exactly what the back of your head looks like  
and shit do you ever brush your hair or does it just automatically do that shit  
because you know chicks in the eighties had to tease their hair for ten hours straight to get that kinda flip action  
makin them bitches mad jealous with your hair skills bro'”  
  
You sink as far into your seat as you can, mortified at your rambling mess of a letter. You lied. You are not the wordsmith, it is not you.  
  
“'so egbert i guess i better get to the point of this note as much as it must pain you to know that my words are comin to an end  
i know bro i know but theres always more where this came from  
especially if you say yes to going with me to the movies on friday night  
shit well make a big event out of it  
ill rent a limo if i have to  
treat you like a real princess  
ill even let you pick the movie any shitty movie you want  
and ill buy the candy and the popcorn and whatever shitty concession stand food you might want  
then maybe we can head back to my place and chill for a while'”  
  
The blush has almost completely taken over Egbert’s cute little face, and you bet you’re not faring much better. And man do you wanna knock Anderson right out of her old lady clogs.  
  
“'and maybe we could play a video game and listen to whatever shitty bands you like  
and maybe cuddle or something  
not that ive ever thought about cuddling you  
i just guess thats something that people do after going on a big date  
but yeah  
so um i guess ill do the cliche middle school shit and add a little checkbox  
ready for it  
date friday  
yes  
no  
so yeah just let me know whenever'”  
  
John looks completely mortified, but not as mortified as you feel, that’s for goddamn sure. And you refuse to make eye contact as he scurries back to his desk, sinking down in it, your note still clutched in his hand.  
  
You keep your eyes down on your paper the rest of the class, expending all your mental energy on cursing Ms. Anderson straight to hell. Maybe if you curse hard enough, a hole will open and suck her down through the floor. That’d be sweet.  
  
You make no move to get up when you hear the bell ring, chairs squeaking against the tile floor and classmates snickering all around you. You hope that Hell has room for about thirty more souls because you swear everyone in this room except you and Egbert deserve a one-way ticket.  
  
Just as you’re about to resign yourself to your fate and get up to leave, you feel a hand tap your shoulder, but not just any hand. THE hand. The hand of your long time crush, and in spite of the past half hour’s events, your heart still skips a beat when you look up into his baby blues. He says nothing though, merely hands you your note back and leaves the room, the faint squeaking of his shoes haunting you even after he’s long gone.  
  
You sigh like only an angsty teenage boy can and open the note only to have your heart skip a couple dozen more beats at what you a find:  
  
a big blue checkmark right next to your bright red yes.


End file.
